Not Quite Married by Betina Krahn Page B

bridegroom was not well versed in commerce and names of trading companies. After a pause, her bridegroom wrote his name beside hers on the parchment: Aaron Thomas Durham. It had a solid, dignified sound. Fortunately, too, since from that day forward she would be known as Mrs. Durham.
    Soon the bridal pair were standing before the wilting vicar, being admonished in rambling terms to observe all manner of sober respect for the union into which they were entering. They were advised to honor and cherish and support each other, forsaking all others, through all the “toils and condi-ssshuns” of life.
    With her hands captive in Aaron Durham’s, Brien struggled to concentrate on the vows she was asked to repeat. To love, honor, and obey . . . for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health . . .
    for as long as they both would live . . . She felt her blood draining from her head as she ended with the words “I do.” The rest of it—the blessing and the declaration of them as man and wife—seemed to take place at a distance and to be happening to someone else.
    When it was over, Aaron Durham seized her by the shoulders, lowered his head, and kissed her full on the lips. She was too stunned at first to protest. Warm, soft, a bit spicy . . . she realized with vague surprise that his impulsive action was satisfying her curiosity about what it would be like to kiss those firm, neatly bordered lips. As he raised his head, she swayed and grasped his coat to steady herself. Interpreting that as an invitation to more, he slid both arms around her and kissed her as if both their lives depended on it.
    She gasped and then had difficulty expelling that breath. She was engulfed in a tempest of sensation . . . soft lips, demanding kiss, whiskey scent . . . warmth, intimacy . . . wet-velvet tongue teasing her lips, then tracing the inner contours of her mouth . . .
    a hard body pressed tightly against hers, melting her against it . . .
    feeling somehow frightened and exhilarated in the same moment.

    Air-starved and deluged with startling new sensations and volatile reactions, she broke the kiss and shoved back in his arms. His eyes were dark, his face was red, and his lips looked as swollen as hers felt. It was as if a gate had swung open inside her and she stood on the edge of something deep and unknown and tempting.
    “That’s quite enough, sir,” she declared, giving a second shove that succeeded in separating them.
    “Is it?” He propped his hands on his hips, breathing as if he’d just run a distance. He turned a fierce expression on the barely sensible vicar. “Tell me, Vicar. What constitutes a proper marriage in the eyes of church and state? What are the legal standards?”
    “L-legal sssstandards?” Sweat was beading all over the ailing vicar’s brow, his eyes watered copiously, and his face contorted into what might have been either a grimace or a grin. “Conssent.
    An’ vows,” he muttered. “And consum . . . consummmm . . .
    ation.”
    The reverend’s legs and consciousness gave out at the same moment, and he would have smacked the stone floor if not for the quick action of Ella and her uncle. Aaron Durham jolted to help them, and together they lifted him and carried him out the side door and to the vicarage. Brien snatched up the marriage documents and hurried after them.
    The clergyman’s residence was little more than a three-room cottage, meagerly furnished but scrupulously maintained. A pair of candles lighted the combined parlor and dining room and allowed them to find a small settee. They dumped him on the threadbare horsehair covering and stood looking down at him until Brien arrived and sent Ella to find the kitchen and some water and cloths.
    “He’s feverish,” Brien declared, placing a hand on his damp forehead. “He needs a doctor.” She removed her cloak, knelt beside the settee, and loosened the clergyman’s sweat-soaked collar. When Ella returned with a basin of water, she wetted the